We left the blink-and-you-missed-it charm of Wikieup and pointed the truck north toward Gunlock State Park, not entirely sure what we’d find but optimistic, as usual. With no reservation and a bit of quiet faith, we rolled in and somehow secured the very last available site for two nights. A small miracle in the RV world. We backed in, leveled up, and without wasting much time went in search of what we’d heard was a rare and fleeting spectacle.
When Gunlock Reservoir fills beyond capacity, water spills over the dam and cascades down the surrounding red rock cliffs, creating a series of waterfalls that look far more like something you’d expect in Zion than in a quiet corner of southwestern Utah. Locals will tell you it’s rare—and they’re right. It’s only happened a handful of times in recent years, and we had managed to arrive right in the middle of it. Good timing—we’ll take it.
We started by walking across the dam and down the trail to view the falls from above. From that vantage point, the water seemed almost casual, like it had somewhere better to be but decided to linger for the scenery. People were wading in the pools, hopping from rock to rock, and generally enjoying what felt like a pop-up national park feature. Some of the small streams looked like you might be able to slide down them and have some fun, but some of them fall 20′ to 30′, ouch.
Then we drove down to the base of the falls and followed a well-worn trail up and across the rocks. “Trail” might be generous—it was more of a suggestion—but it worked. We scrambled across warm red stone, hopping gaps and navigating ledges until we found ourselves surrounded by multiple tiers of cascading water. The pools looked inviting in that deceptive early-spring way, where your brain says “refreshing” and your feet say “absolutely not.” We chose to keep our dignity and our circulation intact and stayed dry, content to admire the scene and then carefully pick our way back.
Dinner that night took us into nearby Santa Clara, where we ended up at a place that looked, from the outside, like it specialized in low expectations. Tucked into a strip mall across from a gas station was Arrabiata Steakhouse. Fortunately, we’ve learned by now that appearances can be wildly misleading.
What followed was, without exaggeration, one of the best meals we’ve ever had. We started with burrata and toasted bread, followed by a salad that somehow made raisins and gorgonzola feel like old friends. The ravioli was exceptional, and then came the main event: an 11-ounce filet mignon, perfectly seared and cooked medium rare with the kind of precision that suggests someone in the kitchen takes this very seriously. Dessert—a chocolate mousse—was excellent, though it had the misfortune of following everything else. Even so, the entire meal was outstanding. A Michelin-level experience hiding in plain sight, next to a gas pump.
The next morning we embraced a slower pace, eventually launching the kayaks around 11:00. From the campground we paddled west across the reservoir toward the red rock cliffs. The lake was high enough to flood trees and brush along the shoreline, turning the edges into a maze of partially submerged branches that made for surprisingly fun navigation.
As we reached the far side, the wind picked up—enthusiastically—and we quickly decided that hugging the shoreline was the superior strategy. Out in the middle, it was a workout. Along the edges, it was a pleasant paddle. We worked our way toward the spillway at the top of the falls we’d explored the day before. The current there was surprisingly mild, and with a bit of awareness (and self-preservation), it was easy to stay well clear of any unintended adventure.
At one point we pulled the kayaks onto a log caught just upstream of the spillway, sat for a while, and took in the view from above. Soda in hand, waterfalls below, sunshine overhead—it felt like we had stumbled into a private overlook that most people never see. Eventually we pushed off, paddled back along the dam, and returned to the truck, satisfied and just a little windblown.
Back at camp we kept things simple with hamburgers and spent the afternoon doing what has become a familiar and cherished routine: sitting, talking, and quietly appreciating where we were and what we’d been able to do.
This stop marked the end of a truly remarkable ten year set of trips. By the time we pull into our driveway, we will have spent 396 nights in the trailer and towed it 35,034 miles. We’ve camped in 22 states and seen more than we could have reasonably expected when this all began. On this most recent journey alone, we logged 108 nights, 6,870 miles, and added nine new states to the list.
We’ll head home, clean up the trailer, and tuck it away for a while—likely three years. But not permanently. This isn’t the end. It’s just an intermission. The road has a way of calling you back.
| Nights | Total Nights | Miles | Total Miles |
|---|---|---|---|
| 2 | 396 | 287 | 35034 |